


under your skin, over the moon

by hunted



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always, Bisexual Peter Jakes, Bittersweet, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Dehydration, Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Endeavour Morse Whump, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fainting, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, Hurt Endeavour Morse, Kissing, M/M, MY BOY NEEDS TO BE COMFORTED, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, Nudity, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse (Canon), Period-Typical Attitudes, Peter Jakes Whump, Pining, Prison, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slurs, The Author is drunk, Threats of Violence, Whump, i'm drunk but i really need to express my Feelings about this show, i'm gonna make some Changes, it'll stay in canon for a bit but, proceed with that comfort in mind, used appropriately and realistically to the time, ya boy is gay, yeah look
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28523826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: Men didn't act this way. Not with other men.....Peter and Endeavour's relationship, throughout its inception and growth. Title taken fromRoses Are Falling by Orville Peck.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 65
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

This wasn’t right.

That was Peter’s sole thought, the whisper that kept floating to the forefront of his mind, pushing furiously against the underside of his skull. His head felt like it would explode, cracks spiderwebbing through the tenuous landscape of bone; so easily broken, a fact that he had been very inelegantly acquainted with through his work. He knew he was nothing but a fleshy bag of bones and determination, held together with rapidly loosening ties. Life was a guarantee of decay. So many bodies, twisted and prone and bent, stagnating in his dreams. He was desperately aware of his own mortality. With a childhood like his, how could he possibly be anything but? He slicked his hair back, ironed his shirts stiff, wore his suits tidy and trim. All in an effort to discipline what he knew was utterly out of his control. His memories. His future. The terrible truth of it all.

There was one person who shone. One person who cut through the insipid hopelessness of life and death, wearing his determination brightly, with quick words and quicker retorts. Sparkling eyes, hands flying about as his mind lurched between countless possibilities and snatches of evidence, chestnut waves of hair unruly in the face of all the rules Peter considered gospel.

Morse didn’t have to try.

Peter envied that.

That’s why this was so wrong. If there was one person who should’ve been protected from this frightening, dark bleakness, it was Morse. He shouldn’t have been in this place. He deserved better.

Peter’s hands were unsteady against his steering wheel, his throat tight. The prison loomed, large and intimidating, nightmarish and so wrong, wrong, _wrong._ Peter was angry. He was so fucking angry. And he was scared. He kept thinking about that night in the pub. Morse had seen him, properly witnessed the deepest, darkest corner of his soul. Peter wanted to take it back. Wished he’d never wept in front of the other man. Broken down like that, trembling, crying out as he remembered the slice and snap of punishments, sobbing as he recalled small shorts stained with the urine of a child’s terror. His terror.

Peter was almost glad Morse had been the first one to know. To see him, properly. Better him than someone else. Anyone else.

A few others knew. Stern faces at the inquiry. Men from his station. Nobody had brought it up, which he was thankful for, but he saw the change in their eyes. Saw them wondering about what had happened to him, what marks had been left. He knew he’d have to work hard to earn back his reputation, but he was starting to wonder whether he wanted it at all. The crass, smooth-talking, smarmy git who had been such a prick to Morse; the lie had been difficult to maintain, especially as Morse offered such genuine winces and grins, heart on his sleeve as though he didn’t know another way to live. Peter was getting tired of apathy. And he didn’t know if apathy was the best way forward.

But what else was there?

He supposed he was coming to the prison to find out. And to see Morse. Selfish motivations, and for once, selfless ones too.

Peter cared about Morse.

He parked. Got out of his car. The guards pat him down, perfunctory and friendless, curt nods offered in a solidarity that Peter didn’t care for. He didn’t want to be allied with the people who were keeping Morse here.

A guard led him, not speaking, through dank halls. Bars hiding sunken souls. Men with boys’ faces, large eyes watching Peter as he went, terrified of what he might do, what punishment the warden would deem necessary today. Peter, hardened as he was by a life in service to the grim and the terrible, felt sick. He wanted to turn on his heel and leave, wanted to sprint deeper into the monster’s mouth and find Morse, wanted to hug the man, wanted to scream at the guard to stop it, stop this madness, release the best man Peter had ever known. Emotion surged up within him like a nauseating force, and he only just managed to swallow it down.

They walked past the food cart. Bread and water and a formless sludge, divided out onto stained trays.

Another few corners still, and the guard stopped. He started unlocking a cell, and it took all of Peter’s strength to look past the man’s bulk and see the thin figure slumped in the corner.

“On your feet, Morse,” the guard barked, before turning to Peter and adding in a jovial voice, “Twenty minutes, I’ll be ‘round to collect ya once it’s up.”

Peter nodded, stepping inside. The door was locked behind him and, despite himself, he felt glad. Were he to stay here instead of leaving Morse alone, he’d not be upset.

The former policeman was standing now, as he had been commanded to do. His stance was unsteady and trembling, leaning on his left leg as though his right had taken some injury. He wore formless grey trousers and a shirt of the same colour. His face was shrunken. Not uncommon for him, owing to his general lack of good life choices, but this was worse than ever before. He pursed his lips, eyes downcast, as though he were afraid to look Peter in the eyes. Afraid, or something else. Peter couldn’t get a read on him.

The guard’s footsteps disappeared down the hall, until they were faint. Rare, that they’d leave a visitor alone with an inmate, let alone allow such a long visit. But Peter wasn’t exactly shocked. Bright had fucked up good and proper, it made sense that he’d pull some strings to get Morse more visitation rights.

“They wouldn’t let me in, before now,” Peter said, clearing his throat, “Otherwise I’d have come earlier.”

Morse nodded, the edges of his eyes tightening with a barely-perceptible smile. His lips twitched in an attempt to smirk, but other than that, he seemed miserable. They’d let him keep his hair long, and it hung down his forehead, brushing his temples.

“Are they feedin’ you enough?”

Morse chuckled darkly. He slowly sat down, reaching back to steady himself on the wall, lowering his body onto a seat which was bolted to the floor. He grimaced, and it was only then that Peter noticed the purple bruise cresting the edge of his cheekbone, obscured as it had been by the cell’s poor lighting, Morse’s face thrown into shadow by his drooped posture.

“What happened to you?”

Morse didn’t reply. Peter approached him slowly, reaching toward him. When Morse didn’t flinch away, Peter turned his palm upward, reaching beneath Morse’s chin to tilt his head, gently gripping his face. Light fell upon Morse’s cheek, the bruise properly visible. Someone had hit him, or otherwise pushed him against an unforgiving surface.

"Who did this?"

"Nobody."

"Did they tell you to say that?"

"Forget it."

“Morse..."

“It’s prison,” Morse murmured, jaw moving against Peter’s fingers, “What do you expect?"

Peter let him go. The sound of Morse’s voice made his heart jump and his gut clench, muttered syllables nestling inside him with a profundity that he’d not expected.

“You sore?”

Morse shrugged, looking down at his hands. Peter grit his teeth, jaw working. The words burst from him before he could make the decision to hold them back;

“Too sore for a hug?”

Morse looked up at him, squinting in confusion. “We don’t do that.”

Peter shrugged back at him, face hot. Morse continued to watch him, searching for something Peter couldn’t name. He didn’t know what the other man needed, but he laid it all out on the table, every single emotion that had boiled over and spilled free that night in the pub. He screamed with his eyes, let Morse see every burning thing that threatened to destroy him forever.

Eventually, Morse rose to his feet. Peter held out a hand, steadying him, frightened to touch him but more frightened of his pain, desperate to help.

“Careful now,” he whispered, “Careful.”

Morse leaned into him. Peter held him gently, as though he were clutching a porcelain doll. But he wasn’t. He was holding a man. A man whose face was pressed into his shoulder, hands against the small of Peter’s back. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and rested his cheek against Morse’s hair, inhaling slowly. This was submission to something profound, something wonderful, something that made him quake. Men didn't act this way. Not with other men.

“You stink,” he said.

Morse huffed out a wisp of laughter, mouth against the beginning of Peter’s arm.

“I wanted to come,” Peter insisted brokenly, desperate that Morse believe him, “I wanted to. Before now.”

“I thought nobody would.”

The confession broke Peter’s heart, and he held Morse tighter, as tight as he could without injuring his friend further.

They stood there for a long while, not speaking. Peter wanted to cry. The sounds of the prison were echoed and distant. Men exchanging brief words, doors slamming, fear in the air. The world felt so small. Just him and Morse, in the corner of a cell. They were running out of time.

“I’m sorry,” Peter breathed, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I couldn’t- I just couldn’t. That night, when you asked me to come to… that place. I wanted to. I wanted to, but…”

“I know.”

“What they did, Morse, I… I wanted to help you, but they’re… What they did to me…”

Morse pulled away from him, and Peter saw an intensity in his eyes like never before. They stood close, speaking quietly, lest anybody hear such intimate things. Their breaths mingled, and Peter tasted sadness.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Morse replied softly, but with tense determination, “I shouldn’t have expected you to return there.”

Peter nodded. It was all he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

Morse’s shadow hung heavy over Peter’s shoulder.

He went home, drank. Leaving the other man alone in that place felt like a crime. He knew what it was like to be abandoned in a place of hellish torture, knew what it meant to be properly afraid. He tried not to wonder about what was being done to his friend, whose hands had left marks that would never really disappear, even once the skin healed. He tried not to superimpose Morse’s face over his own whimpering reflection, the glimpses of his expression in a hotel mirror as adult hands did terrible, terrible things. Peter couldn’t let himself assume. Couldn’t imagine the worst. There would be no way back from that.

He found himself laying in bed, despising the comfort of his mattress, the sheets which were soft and warm. He thought of a thin mattress, scratchy sheets, a dark cell. Where Morse was tonight, how he was feeling, whether his belly was full.

He thought of other things, too.

The silence of his home offered no assistance, and his heart was hammering violently beneath his ribcage, emotion so potent and conflicted that he would surely burst. He felt ill for reasons he couldn’t properly identify, but the truth of it was that he knew precisely what churned inside him. Nagging thoughts that he’d pushed away for too long, a truth long denied. He could still feel Morse’s body against his own, chest to chest. Fabric shoes touching against the leather toes of Peter’s own, the floor hard and cruel, Morse’s thighs soft through prison-issue trousers. He wondered what Morse’s legs looked like. What his hips looked like, the curve and sway of him, the tawny-coloured hairs that surely blanketed pale skin, fair and fine as strands of wheat.

His glass sat on his bedside table, beneath a lopsided lamp. The whiskey caught the light and reflected it, hazy splashes of orange sparkling across his wall, pretty like the stars.

***

He went to the hospital the next day.

Thursday had asked to see him, and Peter could guess why. He knew the questions that would be directed at him, could guess where the old man’s concerns lay. He understood, even if it annoyed him, made him jealous. They were both orbiting around the same force of nature.

The old man looked tough and cruel as ever, gaze steely from where he lay in the hospital bed. Peter would’ve been more afraid for him if he ever doubted Thursday’s steadfast commitment to dragging life by its lapels from the clutches of utter misfortune. He was a powerhouse. Vulnerable and easy to anger, but a powerhouse nonetheless.

“Have you seen him?”

Peter sniffed, pulling cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. “Yes.”

“How is he?”

Peter lit up, replaced the packet and the lighter. He let out a puff of smoke before carefully responding.

“Seems alright. Bit beat up. Not sure if it was the other inmates or a guard. But he’s a copper in prison, sir. So I suppose it makes sense.”

Thursday watched him coolly. “Took a while to think up that answer, Detective Sergeant.”

“Did it?”

“You hidin’ something?”

Peter tried to come up with a quick retort, but the words stuck in his throat, got lost somewhere behind his tongue. Thursday raised an unimpressed eyebrow. The man was stuck in a bed, pale like a ghost, and sucking down IV fluids to stay hydrated, yet Peter felt as though he was the one being interrogated.

“If I’m hidin’ anythin’,” he replied, voice wavering, “it’s about me, sir. Not Morse.”

The truth, but also a lie. Enough truth that Thursday let it go, his expression softening somewhat. For a reason Peter couldn’t name, that hurt more. He looked away, gaze flittering to the corner of the hospital room. He wasn't used to kindness. Wasn't used to fatherly love. Thursday was a lot of things, but at his heart, he was a dad. That had slipped out sometimes, but never as blatantly as this.

“I’m sorry,” Thursday said, “About what happened to you. When you were a boy. We’ve not talked about it.”

Peter had another drag of his cigarette, the movements compulsive, desperate.

“Why would we. Nothin’ to talk about.”

“You’re not the only one, y’know.”

“I don’t live under a bloody rock."

“What I’m _saying,”_ Thursday continued, voice calm, “is that some of my strongest and most respectable colleagues had starts just like yours. Christ knows adults have been hurtin’ kids since the beginnin' of time. This won’t define you. Not unless you allow it to.”

Peter continued looking away from him. His chest ached.

“Detective Sergeant?”

“And how many,” Peter began unsteadily, “How many of them were queers? Your colleagues.”

Thursday paused at that, and Peter could tell he’d thrown the old man a curveball he’d not expected. But his mind worked quick, and Peter had never known him to be needlessly hateful. A moment of silence stretched between them, and they both marinated in it, aware of the gravity that this conversation held.

“None of them, so far as I know,” came the measured response, “Abuse doesn’t make you that way.”

“Don’t it?”

“That’s somethin’ you’re born with, to whatever extent you have it.” Thursday sighed thoughtfully, exhalation gravelly and thickened from years of cigarettes. “Reckon it’s in all of us, somewhat. Just depends how much air you give it.”

Peter looked at him quickly, incredulously. “You count yourself in that?”

Thursday shrugged as much as he was able, thick shoulders confined by stiff hospital attire.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why, ‘cause I’m an old bugger with a busted lung? Come off it Jakes, we can’t be young forever. I was a lad once, I tried things. Got beat up for it, decided I didn’t have enough interest in experimentin’ to keep skin in the game. ‘Sides, I always preferred skirt over trouser. That's all it comes down to, really. What you prefer. Sin's got nothin' to do with it. I've known some damn good queers, and some downright criminal church types. Most of the fellas we haul in have a missus. Don't make them good.”

Peter continued staring at him. Then, he laughed. Thursday grinned back, seeming bored with this conversation, but pleased to be having it. All his cards on the table, then. A man approaching the end of his life, casting aside the ruse they’d all agreed to the day they were born into the world as men. It was relieving, to know that he wasn’t the only one. That even a copper like Thursday had strayed. That maybe, straying wasn’t a bad thing.

“Give us a cigarette then, Detective Sergeant.”

“That the price for aged wisdom?”

“Might as well be. And steady on the _aged_ nonsense.”

“Nurse says you’re not allowed.”

“Nurses say a lot of things.”

“We do,” came a stern voice from behind Jakes, a nurse who had just entered the ward, “And we expect our patients to listen, copper or not.”

Thursday sighed loudly.

***

On his way out, the nurse stopped him. His hand was on the door to leave, but she grabbed his elbow, caught his attention.

“A moment, sir,” she said.

He stepped away from the door. There was nobody else around. She had boyish, short hair and a chain smoker’s mouth, the corners of her lips adorned with wrinkles belonging to a much older face. She looked like Jean Harlow, but rougher, more masculine. Beautiful.

“Overhead you and the other copper,” she said quietly, quickly, “No other nurse would’ve, I was the only one on shift. Maria likes to step out for lunch, bit longer than she’s supposed to.”

Peter felt confused. He didn’t know this woman.

“Well, that’s… nice of you.”

She smiled, face softening. “Well. That’s the kinda thing you do for love, isn’t it?”

He realised, now, what she was trying to say. She understood.

“Just sayin’,” she continued, whispering, “Love ain’t bad. Whoever you find it with. Me, a lady. You, a bloke, or someone else. Whoever. Don't matter.”

She let go of his elbow, stepped away. He wanted to say something, thank her maybe, but the words just wouldn’t come. He felt overwhelmed. First Thursday, and now this.

He watched her walk back to the hospital beds, and felt lost, but hopeful. Marooned so far from all of the certainties he’d once held, but approaching some distant shore. Some new home that held an infinite number of possibilities.

He hoped he wouldn’t live there alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a sneaking suspicion that this may end up longer than I planned.


	3. Chapter 3

Morse hurt.

Every muscle of his back was pulled taut, spine shuddering with discomfort at every movement, skin pulled too tightly over his ribs. His face throbbed. He felt like a poorly constructed puppet, put together wrong, bones shifting beneath his skin. Tendon and sinew stretched, creaked, strained. His father had called him weak once, given him a gun to make him a man. The memory was bitter but hilarious. Morse certainly felt weak. And he’d definitely have appreciated a gun in this fucking place.

He leaned against an uneven brick wall, arms crossed, looking at the ground. He was hiding in the shadow of the exercise yard, but the sun was still too bright. His eyes hurt. His temples hurt. His brain hurt. Everything hurt. No way out, no solution to be found. He was sweating too much, shirt sticking to his back and his chest.

He wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and sleep. But he had to stay awake. This wasn’t a place for letting your guard down, for relaxing.

His knees buckled. The ground seemed to surge up towards his face, but he blinked and it settled. He locked his legs straight and pushed his back against the wall, forcing himself to stay standing up. He exhaled long, slow, and careful. He had to remain awake. He had to stay calm. He wasn’t sure what his body would do if he relinquished his white-knuckled hold on this laughable imitation of control. Would he puke? Faint? Who knew. He certainly didn’t. But something was happening to him. Something was very wrong.

“Lookin’ a bit rough there, mousy!”

He lifted his head, jaw bouncing upwards almost comically, the world lurching and unsteady. He shot the other inmate a wry grin, hoping the expression was suitably cold. He couldn’t so much meet the man’s eyes as gaze in his general direction. Everything was unfocussed and bleary. The nickname wasn’t new, or altogether surprising. Morse. Mouse. Mousy. The inmates here had as much creativity as the schoolboys of Morse’s past.

“Prison life not suitin’ ya well, copper?”

He ignored the other prisoner's needling. It was hard enough just to stay upright.

There were warm memories that he turned to, when the pain got too strong. Whatever pain it was. The fleeting warmth of his mother’s hands to soothe the bite of Susan’s indifference. The curve of Monica’s lips, her soft skin and her steady fingers, hypnotising him into forgetting the mountain of dead bodies which awaited him throughout his career. The brightness of Joan’s smile, tempting him with daydreams of something which would never manifest; a fun diversion to distract from the thoughts, the nightmares, the paranoia. As he swayed, locked away from the real world in a prison exercise yard, he found his delirious mind wandering toward other things. Somewhere far from the feminine.

Darkness, behind his eyelids. Cut through with a pinch of buttery yellow. He imagined somewhere warm. Familiar. The station past midnight, with only his desk lamp turned on. Something close by, someone he needed to reach. A pale shape before him, one hand held out, long fingers balancing a stripe of white. The curling of smoke through the air, brushing Morse’s cheek, caressing him in lieu of the touch he desired. Features were blurred and abstract, but the cut of that brow and the rigid line of a sculpted nose told Morse exactly who was in this waking dream, this strange hallucination.

_Not back off light duties five minutes, and already it's foul play. Just like old times._

“Peter,” Morse mumbled, “Peter…”

He sensed movement. Something coming towards him. A thick arm reached around his body, sudden and unkind, gripping him tight. He staggered, jostled by the prisoner’s grip, head lolling to the side. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose, his cheeks wet, waves of hair sticking to his forehead. He thought of someone else’s touch. A hug in the corner of his cell. He yearned for it.

“Feelin’ a bit green eh, mousy?”

“No, I’m just… Get off me.”

“Aw, c’mon, we’re all friends here, _copper_. Not too good for our kind now, are ya?”

Morse tried to push the inmate off him, but his movements were sluggish. He didn’t know where he was. His hold on reality was slipping. He imagined a stiff mouth, thin lips pressed together. He had always been obsessed with that mouth, pursed as it usually was, around a cigarette. An angular face, half-lidded eyes. Morse remembered a lanky body folded behind a desk, tie and shirt impeccable.

The world felt thick and tangible. Like a painting. Every breath was a brushstroke, and reality fragmented around the profile of a stern, well-dressed policeman.

“Peter…”

He pitched suddenly forward, legs turning to jelly beneath him, no longer supporting his weight. The prisoner let him go immediately, holding up his hands to prove to the guards that he’d not been beating on someone in broad daylight. He had his sentence to consider.

Morse crashed to the ground, collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He landed hard on his side, temple bouncing off the concrete. His eyes rolled back, mouth falling open, and then he was asleep.

***

Morse woke up in the prison hospital. The room was dim and he felt drugged. But his mind was clearer in a sense, no longer foggy with dreams of Peter's silhouette. A man with a broad frame stood at the end of his bed. When Morse swallowed, his throat was dry. He wanted to get up and find some water, but he felt too heavy to move.

"Better stay still, matey. You'll hurt yourself."

Morse narrowed his eyes, tried to discern the face which hovered in the darkness. His expression relaxed when he saw who it was, overtight facial muscles loosening for the first time since Peter had visited.

"...Strange?"

"The one and the only. Bright heard about your fall, sent me to come have a gander. See you're alright."

"Do I look alright?"

"Well, you're breathin'. Which amounts to more than nothin', at the end of the day."

"Easy for you to say. You're not in prison."

Strange cast a brief look around the dank room. Morse hated his meandering curiosity, hated that he could walk out of here freely.

"Mm. S'pose that's true," Strange agreed, words a comfort in their sheer uselessness. What a redundant reply. It was a wonderful guarantee with Strange; any situation, no matter how distressing, was made thoroughly mundane by his bored diagnosis of events. Morse shifted on the bed, face scrunching up in displeasure. He felt like shit, but at least the bed was nicer than his cell mattress. He rubbed at his face with his free hand, the other pinned in place by the stinging weight of an IV.

"What happened to me?"

"Dehydration. Not enough food. Trauma. No sleep. Mild concussion. Whole shebang." Strange paused. "Bruised ribs, too... But they'll heal. Eventually."

"Sure hope so."

"People been beatin' you up? That why you collapsed? That why your ribs are damaged?"

Morse sighed, dropping his hand, letting it rest by his side. He was tired.

"Who is it with the heavy fists, then? 'Cause we have a real issue if it's the guards. We'd hafta see you moved."

"It's not the guards."

"Who, then?"

"Can't tell you that."

"Morse-"

"I'm already a copper in prison, Strange, how much more ire do you want me to attract?" The words came too fast and aggressive for Morse, who coughed and winced when his ribs protested.

"They'll already assume you're grassin'," Strange muttered dryly, "Might as well."

"No, thank you."

"Righto. Suit yourself. Jakes came to visit you, did he?"

Fuck, Strange was quick. Morse tried to keep a straight face, and only just managed. His heart beat faster, and he remembered the ghostly sensation of cigarette smoke against his cheek. He wasn't in any fit state to navigate the maze of conversation. Not when he was tired, beaten, broken, and nurturing the growing suspicion that a secret rested, heavy and profound, behind a colleague's friendship.

"Yeah. Yeah, he did."

"Big shock, that one," Strange remarked, inhaling as he spoke, frowning slightly, "Poor bugger had to talk about Blenheim Vale at the inquiry."

It took a while for the words to sink in.

Morse remembered what he'd seen in the pub. Peter, huddled in the corner. Little Peter. How he'd trembled, leaned forward, hands patting down his hair, smoothing at his neck. Desperate, quivering attempts to calm himself. He tried to imagine Peter at a cold, clinical inquiry. Explaining what had happened. To strangers.

"Handled it well," Strange continued, deaf to the turmoil whiplashing through Morse's mind, "Wouldn't have ever expected it from him, y'know. The whole abuse thing. But I s'pose you never know what's in a bloke's past."

Morse felt sick. He wanted to ask how it was possible that Peter _handled it well._ How anyone could handle such a thing _well._ He remembered the way he'd looked down at the man, dismissing his agony as inconvenient for the case at best, and cowardly at worst. What the fuck did he know? He'd been so caught up in solving things, getting justice, that he'd forgotten to consider the weight of Peter's words. Well, he had time to meditate on it now. Time, and more time, and more time.

He swallowed, throat clicking. He still needed water, and now his eyes were prickling with unshed tears.

"Morse?"

"Did he seem- Did he seem fine? When you saw him last."

Strange stared at him. "Sure, he did. Come on, Morse. That was years ago. You've worked with him. He's a grown man now. Chin up, eh? He'll be right as rain."

Morse wanted to laugh, spit in Strange's face. _The whole abuse thing._

What did any of them know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH, SO. This is gonna be way longer than I planned. Also, once again, I am drunk. Please excuse any typos or mistakes. Or if I repeat words. I tend to do that. Best wishes, stay safe, hope you're doing alright.   
>  ~~This is my first work for this fandom, so I hope it's okay.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Just so you're aware, this chapter contains a brief reference to prison rape, but it's vague, and no such violence occurs.   
> 

They let him out of the prison hospital far too soon, and Morse would’ve asserted that this was the case, were he under the mistaken impression that anyone actually have a flying fuck about his health. No, they just needed him functional enough that he wouldn’t keel over and cause administration no end of issues. Really, he was a problem they resented, a spanner in the works. It was hard enough to keep criminals in line without tossing some juicy bait into their cage. Nothing got animals foaming at the mouth like the lifeblood of their captor. He was a policeman, badge or not. And everyone here was horrifyingly aware of it. The nurses hated him, the guards hated him, the prisoners wanted to kill him. He was a problem.

His cell wasn’t frightening, though it was far from comfortable. It was a solitary room, but not solitary confinement; a benefit, rather than a punishment. The bars meant safety, meant he was locked away from people who would bury a shank in his side if the opportunity presented itself, if they could get away with it and not be identified as his attacker. Provided none of the guards went off the deep end, Morse was better off here than he was anywhere else. He’d meditated on the likelihood of a guard taking the time to exert some corrupted authority over him, away from prying eyes and all the more satisfying as a result, and had decided that it wasn’t likely. As long as he kept his head down and avoided furthering the resentment against him, avoided soliciting hostilities, the guards would tolerate his existence.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t be in his cell all the time.

The shower room was huge. A giant, open space, dank and yawning like an unbrushed mouth. It stank of chemicals and musk, moisture embedded in the walls, cracked tiles framed by mould. Everything was a repugnant off-white colour, and the men were lined up along one wall, beneath showerheads. Morse, as he entered, was reminded of a butcher’s warehouse. Flesh, reddened by steam and boiled by the scalding water which belted down from rusted showerheads. Bodies all in a row, naked and muscular, fat and tattooed. He had never seen anything quite like it, and even beyond his very British attitudes towards nudity, he was just as intimidated and frightened as he’d been on his first night here. The air was thick with humidity, dripping with testosterone, sharpened by danger and the stench of sweat.

He entered with a crowd of other men, the criminals from his section of the prison.

One lone guard watched from the opposing wall to the showers. His gaze moved across the line-up mechanically, and he seemed bored, which terrified Morse. When something happened, which he was convinced it would, he needed the guard to act fast.

Morse undressed, as did the other men. Shouts and jeers echoed across the shower room, gleeful and violent.

He knew how thin he was, how slight in frame. The fear he felt while clothed was nothing compared to what he felt as he slid his shirt off. He hesitated before removing his pants, hands trembling. He was exposed in every sense of the term. Purple bruises decorated his ribs. His skin prickled, exposed to the air. His feet were unsteady, the tiles slippery, moisture softening delicate skin; corroding him. He tried to stand up straight, but his shoulders immediately hunched, face ducked down in a terrified attempt to become invisible. Along with dozens of other men, he dropped his clothes into a giant cart, which would be wheeled away to the laundry rooms.

So, there he was. Surrounded by naked men, horribly aware of his vulnerability, his slender youth. He rubbed at his shoulders, clutching himself, wishing he was anywhere else. He wanted to cover his groin, but knew that would be the most obvious signal of his innocence and fear.

The guard barked at the group of men who were currently standing beneath the spray. They departed like cattle, herded towards another room, where they would towel off and collect a fresh uniform from a different laundry cart.

Morse was crossing the tiled room towards the showers, when he noticed something strange from the corner of his eye. A prisoner, entirely nude and apparently very bold, strode towards the clothed guard. Anticipating a fight, Morse grew nervous, but continued walking towards the showers like a good little inmate.

What he saw next made him freeze.

The prisoner reached forward. The guard reached up as if to shake his hand, but their exchange was too brief for that. The prisoner’s wrist rotated, his fist opening and then closing again. The guard took a small object from the prisoner’s hand, pocketed it.

They both turned towards Morse.

Staring at him from across the room.

Morse’s eyes widened. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew what was about to happen. Hands seized him, the men nearest to him turning against him without even a word exchanged. Morse realised he had greatly underestimated what a guard would do if given the right incentive.

“Let me go!”

They pulled him beneath a showerhead, saturating him, slamming his bare back against the wall. Air rushed from his lungs in a hollow gasp. A man with a scarred cheek leaned against him, their faces only inches apart, forearm braced across Morse’s chest. Other men held his arms down by his sides, unforgiving hands gripping his wrists, denting bruises into pale skin. Someone slapped a broad hand over his mouth, muffling any further protests. All this happened very efficiently and brutally. Little more than a few seconds had passed.

"Mmmf!"

He tried to struggle, feet skidding against a wet floor, but the crowd held him still. His eyes darted about, seeking help, seeking rescue. He spied a few men, standing a short distance away, continuing to shower as he was manhandled. They looked scared. He knew they wouldn't help him.

The prisoner who had approached the guard strode, very slowly, over towards Morse. Despite his dizzying panic, Morse recognised him. The same prisoner who had grabbed him in the yard.

“Have fun in the hospital, hmm? They feed you up nice, copper?”

Morse couldn’t breathe. The hand on his face covered his nose, too. His hair hung, wet and dripping, past his eyes. The room was so still. The other inmates, the bystanders who weren’t involved, avoided looking at him. Where there had been shouted conversation, now there was just the sounds of running water.

The moment stretched on for so long. Too long. Morse couldn’t breathe.

The prisoner walked toward him. Taking his time. “Got friends in here, I have. More than you can say. But that could change. Long as you keep your pretty mouth shut.”

Morse’s throat was burning, panic swelling inside his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

“You a grass, huh? You give 'em a name? You tell who gave you that little welcome?” A vague gesture, to the bruising on Morse's torso.

Morse shook his head as much as he was able.

“You sure about that?”

Morse’s mouth was released. He gasped, dizzy and terrified, water in his eyes, the world blurry. Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head backward, exposing his throat.

“I didn’t, I didn’t,” he insisted, words a panicked rush, “I- I didn’t say anything.”

“See, I wanna believe you. But your kind ain’t known for honesty.”

“I swear.”

“Your word’s 'bout as valuable as shit.”

“What’re you gonna do, then,” Morse breathed, words bursting from his mouth before he could think twice, “Gonna hurt me more? You send me to the medical ward again, they’ll start asking questions. I won’t talk. But they’ll assume. You're the ringleader, they'll come for you. And maybe your screw won’t be so friendly then.”

The hubris of his words hung heavy in the air. The inmate held his stare, and then smiled. A shark’s smile, all teeth and no kindness. Behind his shoulder, the guard watched with a blank, emotionless expression.

The inmate who was pinning Morse in place using the meat of his arm, crushing Morse's chest, chuckled darkly. He inclined his face into Morse's cheek, inhaling hungrily. Like he was tasting him, savouring his terror. An intimidation tactic, surely. Well, it fucking worked. The man was much bigger than Morse, and was pressed against him. Morse could feel the weight of another man's cock against his hip. So many nude bodies, all slicked up with water. The resulting psychological torment was deliberate and effective, and he knew what they were threatening him with, even if they'd not said it in so many words. He knew what happened to men in prison showers.

"Right smartarse, ain't ya."

"I'm not wrong," Morse bit back. His scalp burned, the grip on his hair unrelenting. His neck ached from the way he was being held, and his fingers were turning purple. He refused to look at the man who had him pinned, refused to meet his looming eyes.

"They say you killed a copper, boy. One of your own. That true?"

"Why do you care?"

"Don't like coppers. Make no secret of it. But if there's one thing I hate more than the law, it's a bloke who'll turn on his own. Cowardice, I call that."

Bile rose in Morse's throat. The golden rule in prison was that you didn't talk about your supposed crimes, especially in his position. But he was angry, and anger made him stupid. He supposed there was no winning either way.

"I'm no grass," he spat, droplets of shower water flying from his mouth, "And I hate cowardice just as much as you."

Recognition, in the inmate's eyes. Amusement.

"Frame-up then, is it? Boys in blue done you dirty?"

Morse grit his teeth, the muscles of his jaw aching.

"So, you ain't no killer."

"I'm not trouble. I don't care about getting justice for beatings. I just want to keep my head down. Stay out of your way," Morse paused, "Sir."

There was a lull of silence. Then, the ringleader laughed. More genuine, this time.

"Let the prick go."

***

They let him shower. Let him dress. Let him retreat to his cell.

He sat in bed for a few minutes, legs crossed, leaned against the wall. He felt empty. He couldn't process what had just happened.

When he looked down at his lap, his hands were shaking, his wrists were bruised. And that wasn't all. His trousers were taut. Because of the adrenaline, he assumed, trying to rationalise his way past how disturbing it was. But he couldn't. And, for some reason, that was what pushed him over the edge. The memory of the man standing against him, the nakedness of everyone involved, the crowd of flesh and fear and snarling smiles. The terror. The excitement.

He stumbled up from the bed, across the room. He fell to his knees beside his cell toilet, just in time to throw up.

***

Peter was at home when he got the call. Sat in a comfortable chair, nursing a glass of whiskey, cigarette balanced on the edge of an ashtray as he thumbed through a novel. His shirt was unbuttoned down to his sternum, his hair tousled in a way his colleagues would never witness. The phone's shrill ring made him jump.

"Christ," he muttered, closing the book. He rose from his chair, went to the hallway to answer the phone. He wasn't sure what he expected, who might've been ringing him. What he certainly did not expect was a stern voice asking that he accept the charges from a prison call. His gut lurched, face suddenly flushed with heat, grip tightening around the phone.

"Yes," he said, trying to stay calm.

He was transferred to the call. Static, for a long moment.

_"Peter...?"_

That voice. Tentative, soft, unsure. Peter stood, rigid and uncomfortable, in the middle of his hallway. It wasn't that he disliked Morse calling him at home. It just made no sense. He was utterly unprepared for it.

"Yeah," he responded eventually, "Yeah, it's me."

_"Sorry to call, so suddenly. I didn't... I'm not sure why, but I..."_

Peter genuinely had no idea what Morse could possibly be trying to say. They were both silent, for too long; prison calls were restricted, after all. Every second was precious. Yet again, Peter felt they were running out of time.

"Are you... Are you okay?"

_"Could be worse."_

"Doesn't answer the question."

_"I'm fine."_

"Bullshit."

_"Peter..."_

"Don't you have limited calls at the prison? Why're you talkin' to me? You've got a family. I'm sure they wanna hear from you."

_"You don't want to hear from me?"_

Peter's expression flickered, the briefest glimpse of heartbreak seizing his face. Nothing could be further from the truth. His home felt empty and strange. He held the phone so tightly that his knuckles ached. He wished he could be closer to the voice on the phone, wished there wasn't such a distance between them. He wished he could explain that the frustration in his tone was due to Morse's utter disregard for his own wellbeing. He wasn't angry because he didn't care. He was angry because he did.

"I didn't say that."

_"It was... It was difficult, today. But I think... I think things will be better now. The other prisoners, they're... We've reached an understanding."_

Peter nodded. He felt awkward, conflicted, relieved. "Good. Good."

Silence, again.

_"I'm sorry."_

"For what?"

_"I shouldn't have walked away from you, at the pub. I shouldn't have left you there. Not like that. I can't stop thinking about it. I should've... called your family, or friends, or something-"_

"No."

Morse paused, surprised. _"No?"_

Peter smoothed at his hair, palm pressing against the side of his head. A nervous movement. He wished he had his cigarette handy. There was comfort in compulsive action.

"The fewer people to see me like that, the better."

_"I'm sorry I had to see you like that, then."_

"I'm glad," Peter was saying, before he could stop himself, "I'm glad it was you."

Morse didn't reply. Peter was terrified he'd said too much. The whiskey had taken hold, made him too confident for his own good. Peter's heart was racing.

"...Morse?"

_"I'd do it right. Next time. Treat you better. You deserve that."_

Fuck. Morse's voice was so gentle, so tender. Peter's insides seemed to wind tighter, his chest burning. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what _next time_ Morse was whispering about. He went through life assuming that Blenheim Vale ought never be mentioned, that all his years of burying that pain would guarantee erasing it. But Morse was a weakness in his defences, a wild card that broke all the rules, cut through the barriers Peter had used to survive.

 _"If you ever feel like that again,"_ Morse told him, _"If you ever need someone. I'm here."_

"I don't- You're my colleague, Morse. I can't- I can't have people looking at me and-" He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling hard through his nose, gritting his teeth. "You can't think about that. I'm glad it was you, in the pub, but,"

Morse waited. Let him force the words out.

"I'm not that boy, not now," Peter insisted, voice wavering, "I'm not Little Peter. I'm still Jakes. I'm still the bastard who gave you a hard time when you first arrived. You can still hate me. I'm not- I'm not helpless."

_"I don't think you are. And I never hated you."_

Peter chuckled. "Sure, you did. Don't blame you."

 _"I think I just wanted approval,"_ Morse mused, _"You didn't hand it out as freely as Thursday. You... kept me on my toes. If I ever get out of here... I look forward to it. To working with you, again. I don't see you as Little Peter. I just... see you as Peter, now. Jakes, too. But..."_

He didn't have to say it. _But things have changed._ It was a mutual, and knowing that made Peter's soul sing. They wouldn't be able to return to the old days. He didn't want them to.

"Maybe- Maybe I oughta call you Endeavour, then."

A burst of laughter travelled down the line. Peter smiled, despite his nerves.

_"I always disliked that name."_

"Right."

 _"It's been..."_ Morse sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter imagined him rubbing at his eyes, stressed and tired. The other man's mannerisms had become so familiar after so many hours spent together in the same station. _"It's been a hard day. Hearing from you... Thank you, Peter."_

"Anytime," Peter said, too quickly, "I mean, anytime they let you, I suppose."

_"I should go. They're telling me my time's up."_

"Okay."

A pause. The weight of it was crushing.

 _"Goodbye,"_ Morse said, sounding as though he had so much more to say.

"Goodbye," Peter replied, feeling the same way.

The line went dead.


	5. Chapter 5

There were a few memories which Peter held close to his heart. The push and the tug between them, the competitiveness which had softened, changed, grown into something else.

Morse had seemed like such an upstart little prick. He'd burst into their station with creased clothes and a loud voice, making grand statements and overtaking everyone else as though he’d spent years earning that right. His abrupt entrance had left a sour taste in everybody’s mouth, Peter’s included.

But he’d come to appreciate Morse’s intellect for what it was. His fragility, too.

He remembered sitting in the pub with Thursday and a wide-eyed Morse. He remembered the way Morse had sat sidewards on his chair, slumped over and ill at ease, glancing nervously around as though he expected violence to erupt at any moment. He remembered the shattering of glass, the way Morse had stiffened and stared off into the distance, silent when Thursday tried to prod him into speaking by unwrapping that day’s sandwich. Ham and tomato.

He remembered swallowing down his concern, along with a gulp of beer. Looking over at Morse, wishing he could do more, say more—knowing that his concern would be considered condescension or mockery, wishing he’d not put himself in that position by antagonising Morse so often. There had been another reason behind his silence, too. Nobody had known, back then, about Blenheim Vale. Morse would’ve seen the terrified empathy in his eyes, if he dared speak the words aloud. He couldn’t say that he’d seen boys flinch like that before, that he himself had recoiled and shuddered for years after horrendous abuse. Better to say nothing.

There had been other times, too.

 _You walk into a door, or something?_ That had been his blunt greeting when he saw Morse sitting behind his desk, peering through puffy, bruised eyelids, with a bleeding split across the bridge of his nose. Peter was a copper, so he knew that nobody walked into doors, not really. And definitely not with both sides of their face. His real question had been, _who punched you?_ But the question went unanswered, and he supposed it was for the best, because Morse taking the time to describe whose fists had met his underfed frame would have made him indescribably sad. When he found out later, he was able to keep his reaction private.

 _Poor Morse_ , he’d thought, meditating on the death of a father, the firing of a gun, and the empty desk which had made such an impact around the station. _Poor fucking Morse._

He remembered Strange dragging a limping Morse inside the station, taking him to see DeBryn after the daft bastard had tried to chase a suspect down on his own. Which had been a worrying sign, to put it politely. DeBryn dealt in stiffs, not the living. And Morse had certainly looked gaunt enough to be heading in that direction.

He’d asked for Peter’s shirt, later. His had been sticky with blood, ripped by the blade which had also opened up his side. How carefully he’d undressed, slow and shaky, wincing in pain. Peter had politely looked away from all that bared skin, lighting a cigarette for something to do. Where that decorous civility had come from, he could’ve only guessed. He knew now, of course. But back then, his attraction to Morse had been some odd, unnameable force of nature.

He also hadn’t attempted to explain why he later lay awake at night, thinking of Morse’s chest. His torso, tapering down into narrow hips and a slender figure, ending in a closed circle of leather. How he’d wanted to unbuckle that belt, tug Morse closer by his waistband. Lean into him, gentle-like, lips brushing lightly enough that Morse would have to deepen the kiss. Open his mouth, move closer, or place his hand on Peter’s chest and push him away.

The fantasies had gotten stronger, every single day they worked together.

He'd been angry about it, for a while. Betrayed by his own mind, furious that he couldn't control such thoughts, frightened by what they meant. He was nothing if not a product of his time, and it was his misguided belief that these desires could only have been caused by Blenheim Vale. Because homosexuality, he had been taught, was the product of a deviant soul; something to be fixed, cured, erased. He knew better now. Thursday had helped him massively in that department. There was nothing like the bored, drawling comfort that a senior policeman could offer. Thursday had no reason to lie to Peter. And if he had the old man's respect, he knew he had earned it. Queer or not.

He had no idea what kind of man he even _was,_ really. He didn't have anything against homosexuals, necessarily, but he still wasn't quite sure he was one. He'd not faked his lust for women, even as he hid his desire for men. For Morse.  He knew there were other words, newer words, for people like him. But he knew what he was condemning himself to, if he dared embrace another man. There were no half measures when it came to being a homosexual, not in the eyes of society. A man on his arm would make him a poof. Oddly, he found that prospect rather exciting, despite the danger he'd be in.

Peter had put his life on hold without realising it, obsessed with a colleague whose absence was felt more keenly than any other's. One Friday night, smoking alone in his bedroom, this occurred to him.

He let smoke drift from his mouth and fill the air, his bedroom thick with a hazy grey cloud. A ceiling fan was slowly turning above him, and he gazed blankly upwards at lethargically rotating blades. The world felt heavy, sluggish, pointless. He hadn't even made the decision to lose interest in all his hobbies and activities. It had just... happened, in Morse's absence.

On his bedside table sat a faithful beer, his third one of the night. He was used to being alone. He'd always preferred it, in some ways, because it guaranteed safety. Nobody could hurt you if there was nobody there.

But he felt _lonely_.

He could hear his neighbours partying. It was nearing ten o'clock, and he was a young man who-- he had been reliably informed-- was reasonably attractive. Yet here he was, alone in his bed, acting like some war widow pining for a lost lover. He could've gone out and found a date, a pretty girl wearing a tight dress, but that wasn't what he wanted. That wasn't what he needed.

With the hand that wasn't smoking, he touched the sheets, fingertips drawn gently across fabric. He closed his eyes and wondered what Morse was doing tonight, what fabric was against his skin, what brushed his palms. The practicalities of prison vexed and depressed him. The booze had made him warm and loose-limbed, heart thumping a little harder as unbidden thoughts rose to the surface. He wondered what Morse was to do, if he found himself aroused of a night.

His hand drifted upward to his belly, fingers fanning out against his navel. He exhaled, a crease between his brows. He didn't often do this. But nobody was going to keep him company tonight, and he couldn't banish these thoughts of Morse, no matter how hard he tried. The time for repression and denial was over. He was attracted to Morse. He was attracted to a man. That was the truth, and he couldn't hide it one single day longer.

He slid his fingers below the undone waistband of his trousers, unceremoniously unzipped for comfort's sake, the moment he crossed the threshold of his home. He'd intended to get changed, but ultimately couldn't be fucked. He left his underwear on, rubbing the flat of his hand down a hardening length, excited by the fabric which trapped him. He imagined that it was Morse's hand. Imagined Morse cornering him in the station, maybe between evidence shelves. Imagined them snatching moments of time when nobody could see them. All those late nights they'd wasted, working in silence, exchanging brief comments about crime. All those times they'd shared crappy takeout food, and Peter had wanted to share something far more intimate.

He thought of Morse in prison. Thought of him, tonight. How he felt. What he was thinking about. Drunk and hopelessly romantic, despite his surly wit and cutting cynicism, Peter felt connected to his colleague. The space between them was vast, miles and miles of distance, but he felt that Morse was right next to him. He dared not reach out beside him, or open his eyes. He didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to luxuriate in this, imagine Morse curled up next to him, watching through hazel brown lashes.

His breaths were loud in the room. His hips moved, body undulating where he lay, bare feet pressing into the mattress as he arched into his own touch.

It wasn't enough.

But for now, it'd have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(This](https://jarseman.tumblr.com/post/640163878870859776/morse-flinching-peter-looking-concerned) is Peter's face when Morse flinches in the pub, FYI. Oh god, my heart.) I will hopefully update again soon...! Look forward to more interaction between our boys. Oh and, I'm shit at replying to comments, so if I take a hot minute to respond to you, please just be patient with me, lovelies.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Even though I'm a relatively young adult man, I was told that being abused throughout your childhood "made" you gay. The ICD didn't remove homosexuality from its list of mental disorders until 1990. The DSM moved a little faster, but their declassification occurred in 1973, which is still before Peter's time. (And bisexuality was even more misunderstood.) So that's the realistic background which informs this fic. I want to be authentic to the experiences of men in Peter's position.


	6. Chapter 6

Morse was left with a lot of time to contemplate the spiralling mess of events which had put him in prison. Assess the landscape of his life, what had happened to him, what had happened to those around him. The tranquility he found in Peter's voice could only carry him so far.

He continued to ask himself what he could’ve done differently.

The machine of corruption had swallowed him, confined him in a box that felt inescapable. He knew every inch of his cell. He was a rabbit who had lost his way, soft paw placed innocently against a trigger plate, turned inside-out by the spiked jaws which closed around him and sent organs and ribs flying in red spurts. He’d placed too much faith in justice. He’d thought the trap was hidden, but he’d just not seen the signs. The more he struggled, the more the mechanisms of injustice tightened. Maybe he’d always been trapped.

He felt restless, angry, hopeless. Pent-up rage with nowhere to go. He paced his cell until the guards shouted at him to sit still.

He dreamed of Thursday.

He dreamed of blood, of his father laying unresponsive on the floor. Because that’s what Thursday was, really, and any thought to the contrary would’ve amounted to little more than a lie. Morse had been told, during a brief visit from Strange, that the old man was doing alright. Walking around, even. Sneaking puffs of his pipe when the nurses weren’t looking. That was reassuring, but it wasn’t enough.

Morse was sick with all the things he’d not done.

Maybe if he’d moved faster. Maybe if he’d kept McGarrett from pulling the trigger on herself. Maybe the inquest would be over already, maybe he’d be released, and free to— to do what? He didn’t know. What could he possibly do? Find Thursday? Stand near him, nearly touching but not quite, embraces strictly prohibited under their code of stoic machismo? He couldn’t fix this with his hands. He couldn’t make it right. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn't turn back time and kneel beside Peter, ease his palms away from the broken glass which littered the pub floor.

Once he realised that so much was beyond his control, he was unable to let go of that terrible revelation. He imagined returning to his station, acting as though everyone there was a trustworthy colleague, and couldn’t stomach it. Oh, there were people he trusted, but they were few in number. And how could he possibly trust anybody else, if he’d not been to hell with them, seen how they handled the darkest and most perverse displays of humanity?

He thought of Peter.

The man was a good investigator, he knew how to do his job, and do it well- though he had tried his hardest to hide such skills behind layers of arrogant apathy. That frightened Morse. Competency and decency had landed him in here. It was better to be corrupt, surely. Better to be what the bastards wanted you to be.

He wanted to call Peter again. Wanted to see him.

But the days passed. And as they did, he realised that he couldn’t risk it. Not until the inquest proclaimed him an innocent man, and even then, could he really just move on? What more would they do to him, if they would send him to this hellhole? What would they do to the people he cared about? The people he loved?

He thought of Monica.

Until he didn’t anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Be warned, there is canon-compliant discussion of past child abuse in this chapter.   
> 

Peter attended the official announcement. The conclusion of the inquest.

“The finding of this board is that the tragic events of last December, which led to the shooting of DI Thursday and the arrest of DS Morse, were due solely to a mental breakdown suffered by ACC Clive Deare. We are also of a view that further investigation into other extraneous matters would not be in the national interest. To which end, all investigative materials relating to Blenheim Vale Boy's Home are to be sealed for 50 years.”

Peter probably should’ve been surprised. But he wasn’t.

He’d worn a suit to the proceedings. Styled his hair. Shaved close and smooth. His face was blank when the conclusion was read. His collar was stiff and impeccable, tie neat beneath a buttoned jacket. He’d expected panic, or resentment. But he didn’t feel anything of the kind, and anyone who looked towards him expecting distress would have been disappointed.

All he felt was relief.

***

The phone rang when he got home. He accepted the charges for a prison call, smiling widely.

_“Jakes.”_

“It’s over,” he said, “It’s over, Morse. You can come home now.”

_“How can you be so happy about this?”_

Peter’s smile dimmed, but only slightly. “It’s done. Buried. I get to- You get to move on. We get to move on.”

_“I can’t.”_

“Yes, you can.”

 _“I wish I could be as confident as you,”_ Morse replied bitterly, _“But they put Thursday in hospital, put me in here. How can I just move on?”_

“You can. You can, trust me. They’re dead and done, Morse,” Peter whispered, “The bastards who hurt-”

He stopped speaking. He couldn’t say the words. Didn’t want to rekindle the memories. He held the phone tight, desperate now, and no longer smiling.

“You’re comin’ back to the station, right?”

_“I don’t know.”_

Peter was dumbfounded. He supposed he didn’t know what Morse had gone through in prison, but this couldn’t be the way it ended. He sensed something terrible looming, a goodbye that he refused to accept.

“You can’t be serious. Morse-”

_“I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know. What if I come back, and they take issue with that? What if I step out of line again? If there’s something else, another case they try to bury?”_

“Then we’ll handle it. Together.”

_“Look how that worked out last time.”_

Peter was starting to get angry. “You can’t just walk away. Let them win.”

_“Maybe they’ll win regardless of what I do.”_

“Do you have any idea-”

He cut himself off, trying to reign in the emotion. Morse waited for him to talk. When he did, his voice was unsteady, but his words were deliberate.

“Do you have any idea what’ll happen if good coppers give up the fight? ‘Cause I do. Or don’t you care?”

Morse remained silent. He was stubborn. Hurting. Convinced there was nothing to do but surrender. Peter knew his words were unfair. He knew that Morse gave a shit. He knew where this was coming from. But he couldn’t let Morse’s guilt and fear take control. He refused.

“I considered leavin', y’know. Makin' up some story about a girlfriend I don’t have. A baby on the way. But I’m not gonna do that. 'Cause I have a duty here, Morse. And so do you.”

_“It’s not that simple.”_

“It is. It really is.”

_“Peter-”_

“You never asked, y’know,” Peter began, spite in his voice, “Nobody did. Politeness, I s'pose.”

_“Asked what?”_

“The scarring on my face. Near my left eye. Guess everyone assumed I got in a punch-up. I let ‘em assume that, too. Easier not to explain.”

_“What’re you talking about?”_

“It was Deare. See, they had to learn not to go for the face. Easier to cover up the bruises, the cuts, if they’re on the body. Got other scars, too. But the one on my face, it used to be a lot bigger. I’ve had to wear that, Morse. Go through the world like it was nothin’, wearing that reminder every bloody day. Act like some smug prick. Like I ain’t ever suffered. Do you have _any idea_ what it takes to do that? Every _fuckin’_ day?”

The line was silent. Static was the only reply.

“No,” Peter mused bitterly, “You don’t know what that’s like. And we’re the last line of defence against that… that _shit._ If all the good coppers run and hide, only the bad ones will be left. And you have no idea how bad they can get. You think you know,” his voice shook, “but you don’t. You’ve no fuckin’ clue.”

Morse didn’t speak. Peter wished he could see his face. It hurt, to be saying this. It hurt that he had to.

“You can run. But I can’t. If you really wanna leave, well. Good luck.”

He hung up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Re: the last chapter, I believe the scars may actually belong to Jack Laskey, but hey, they work well as a vehicle for communicating Peter's past... Though I'm obviously making no comment on how Laskey got those scars. (I mean, heck, I have a scar on my shin after a really dumb accident involving a church pew. Not all scars are dramatic.) I didn't know the scars were Laskey's when I developed this headcanon (I thought they were character makeup), and now I kinda don't want to let it go, lol. Let's just operate within the sphere of fiction and ignore everything else ;-)   
> 

Peter went out and got pissed.

It was a crap coping mechanism, but it was one that never failed to deliver. He didn't know what Morse would do, didn't know how his blunt words would be received. He couldn't think about it. He couldn't stand to imagine Morse not returning to the station in some capacity. He had to get blind drunk and he had to do it quick.

He went to the Outhouse. It was appropriately named. With a warped front door, brick walls heaving beneath the weight of decay and neglect, it stunk like a piece of shit and felt just as good. There was nowhere else where a man could truly get lost in the drink, smoke down to the filter, and toss away any pretences of civility or sanity. It was dirty, raw, illegal in a few respects, and very welcoming of coppers who didn't bring their jobs through the door. The establishment reminded Peter, in a true testament to how disgusted he was by his own addictions, of a sodden cigarette butt drowning in the toxic bottom of a shot glass. Too much of a good thing, and just enough that you had to keep coming back.

He took a seat at the bar, beside a gin-soaked businessman who was twice-divorced and ruddy-faced, his cheeks taking on the splotchy, unfortunate complexion that serious alcoholics got by a certain age. His name was Boyle, and he was a miserable son of a bitch, but a fantastic drinking partner. He could match you until he collapsed, and he would. Drinking hard was a matter of pride for him, and Peter supposed it made sense. The bastard had little else to live for. His collar was torn open and his tie wrenched to the side, hanging from the thick trunk of his neck like a soft noose. Predictably, he swung an arm over Peter's shoulders and gave him a uncomfortable, airway-compromising side-hug in greeting.

"Jakes," he slurred loudly, "Fuckin' prick, where ya been."

"Been busy," Peter replied easily, holding up a hand to the bartender. They knew what he liked, here. He hated how familiar he was in a place like this, but appreciated it, too.

"Ah, fuckin' know it don't I, fuckin' always workin' in this fuckin' place, never stops..."

Having expected this rant, Peter was able to lean away from Boyle's rambling and clasp his hand around a cool, refreshing pint of beer. The desperation of tipping his head back to take a massive gulp should've worried him. But all he felt was relief. Less pure than his reaction to the inquest findings, but once again, it'd have to do. He hoped this wasn't a trend of him settling for second-best, but it was better than nothing.

***

Thursday was in the car with a young constable. Wet behind the ears and full of pride, happy to be dressed up to the nines, eager to impress. He had a slim face and wide eyes, too innocent for his own good. Thursday knew he'd see this fresh-faced boy broken beyond recognition, and he was certain of this because he recognised Morse in the lad's features. God only knew what Morse would look like, now he'd served time. The thought made Thursday anxious, and he realised that he couldn't go home to Win. Not just yet. He had a job to do first. Doctor's orders be damned.

"Turn here," he said.

The kid glanced at him, confused. "Sir, your house is-"

"I know where my house is. And I'm tellin' you to turn here. I've somewhere I need to be, before I head on home. And we might just pick up somebody else on the way. Or are you disobeyin' my orders, constable?"

"No, sir."

They turned the corner. Thursday almost felt bad for pulling the authority card, but he figured it was necessary. He coughed quietly into a closed fist, ignoring the tug of pain in his chest. Figuring out Morse's movements was a top priority. There was a single person he knew had been regularly talking with his bagman while in prison, and that person was in one of two places. Thursday figured he knew which was most likely.

He had to press Jakes for any, and all, information. What Morse intended to do once he left prison, when he might be back on the job, what his emotional state was.

It was only when the car was parked, and he was walking through the doors of the Outhouse, that he realised another of his responsibilities.

Jakes was slumped over the pub counter, temple and cheek against wood, eyes closed. A cigarette was precariously held between two of his fingers, smouldering ash seconds away from crumbling. He was still in the same clothes that he'd worn to the inquest, only now his hair was messy and his eyes were swollen. The pub roared around him, violent and wild, but the detective sergeant was unmoving. Several empty glasses sat near him, yet to be taken away by the bartender. Evidence of how long he'd been in here, drinking himself unconscious. He looked like he was about to slide off his chair and crumple onto the floor. He'd always taken such pride in his appearance; Thursday had never seen him like this before. Just witnessing this felt wrong, like an invasion of the man's privacy.

In that moment, Thursday was struck by a swell of sadness, and then a profound sense of shame.

He'd forgotten to take care of Peter Jakes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Please note that, in this chapter, a character's memories of abuse are briefly triggered.   
> 

The first thing he became aware of was that he was comfortable.

At first, he thought he was laying in his own bed, but that hardly made sense. Delicate, pleasant smells wafted towards him when he sleepily inhaled, the space around him possessing a general air of cleanliness that his home lacked. The sheets were soft and warm, the mattress beneath him cradling his aching back.

Peter peeked from beneath his eyelids, drowsy and confused, the beginnings of nausea starting to seize his gut as his awareness increased. What he saw made him freeze. Terror gripped his every limb and shuddered silently through his body, like a gunshot that only he could feel. His next exhalation caught, previously steady breaths interrupted by a hitched, frightened tightness.

A man was standing over him.

Peter's head spun, feverish and hungover, as he remembered hotel beds. He became certain that, if he dared reach out a hand, he would discover the body of another young boy next to him, quietly weeping. In one horrible moment, he was a child once more.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice trembling, “Please, don’t,”

The sound of his voice, adult and deeper than it had once been when he spoke those words, helped shock him from his nightmare. So did the reply, which arrived gravelly and stern, but with an undercurrent of affection.

“It’s me, Jakes. Thursday.” A pause, as the older man wrestled with the truly pitiable display before him, and wondered how best to respond. “You’re safe.”

Peter sighed loudly, shakily. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

He rubbed at his face, hand trembling. Thursday took a seat at his bedside, moving slowly.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Thursday reassured him calmly, “You're in my home. Seemed like you needed a bed for the night.”

Peter felt humiliated. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Right enough. But I did, so here you are.” Thursday sat back in his chair. “Is it the inquest? That why you drank yourself blind?”

“Mostly.”

“Somethin’ else on your shoulders?”

Peter sat up in bed, held back a retch. His belly sloshed with booze. He wished he’d eaten more before heading to the pub. He hid his face in his hands, breathed slowly. His coat was draped over the back of Thursday’s chair, his shoes placed neatly by his bedside, but he still wore his trousers and shirt from last night. The salty, bitter musk of sweat and beer clung to him. He desperately needed a shower.

“I was happy… at first. The inquest… put it all to rest. I can finally move on.”

Thursday listened silently. Peter appreciated the patience. He swallowed back bile, closed his eyes tightly.

“Thought Morse’d feel the same way. He’s talkin’ about… not comin’ back to the station. As if… As if he’s more right to be upset than me. After everythin’ that I-”

He cut himself off. Thursday was still silent. Peter raised his head, gazed toward the foot of the bed, trying to breathe steadily.

“Don’t blame the guy,” he clarified weakly, “Dunno what it was like inside. But he can’t just… I don’t want him to go.”

Thursday hummed in lieu of a reply. Peter looked over at him, hurriedly and afraid. He sensed that he’d revealed too much, but to his relief, there was no judgement on his mentor’s face. Thursday crossed his arms, levelled Peter with a long, thoughtful stare.

“What you told me, in the hospital. You were talkin’ about Morse, weren’t you.”

Peter clenched his jaw.

“Nothin’ wrong with it, not in my view. But I will say that you’ve placed a lotta hope in one person. That can be a mistake, regardless of whether it's a bird or a lad. We’re all on our own journey, Jakes. You can’t force him to go one way or another. What he’s been through, he’ll process on his own. Maybe he’ll arrive back at the station once he’s done thinkin’ about it, maybe he won’t. But it ain’t for us to decide.”

“You’re worried ‘bout him not comin’ back too,” Peter realised aloud, "You've thought on this."

Thursday smiled mildly. He got up from his chair, adjusted the waistband of his trousers, tucking his shirt in where it had shifted.

“Win’s got breakfast on. I’ll get you some of Sam’s clothes.”

Still processing the speech he’d been given, and not yet certain how he felt about the open-hearted acceptance of a secret he’d long considered his most profound shame, Peter took a moment to respond. Thursday was heading for the door by the time he found his voice.

“Your family,” he began, “They’ll lose respect for me, they see me like this.”

Thursday waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense.”

He walked out.

***

Not five minutes after Thursday departed, there was a tentative knock at the door to the spare room. Peter, who was standing woozily by now, walked to open it.

Joan held out a folded pile of clothes. Her makeup was flawless and her grin was dazzling.

"A present, good sir."

He took them with an embarrassed smile. She beamed widely at him, as exuberant as ever. When she turned to go, Peter felt compelled to speak up.

"I'm sorry."

She turned back to him, eyebrows raised. "'Bout what?"

He looked down at his feet, ashamed but glad to be speaking these words. They had weighed on him.

"That night we went out. I shouldn't have... pushed my luck. Grabbin' at you like that while we were dancin', it was..."

She laughed, as though delighted. He glanced up at her, surprised by her reaction.

"You really think that bothered me? I get that all the time. Blokes like you ask me out for a drink, I know what's comin' my way."

The nonchalance with which she dismissed him was a disturbing window into the plight of the modern woman. Peter leaned against the doorframe, trying to find a way of phrasing this which didn't reveal the heart of his regret. He knew what it was like to be touched when you had asked someone to stop. Heading home that night, he had become aware how much he'd changed, how much he had overcompensated for his trauma by becoming the kind of man who would never be subject to such tortures again. He had become a flirtatious pervert, handsy where he ought to be polite, and it had disgusted him. _Blokes like you._ Joan had that right, and he hated himself for it.

She was still watching him, a little confused now.

"Just 'cause it's common don't make it right. And I'm sorry. I should've been a gentleman."

Joan shrugged. "I went out with you 'cause I wasn't in the mood for a gentleman, Jakes. I knew what you were about."

"Even so," he insisted, "I'm sorry."

"Okay."

Peter nodded. "Okay."

He closed the door.


End file.
